


Seven Locks

by LaDolceMia



Series: The Samson Series [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Frottage in THOSE jeans, I regret nothinggg, M/M, We all know there’s a Sherlock’s-hair fetish in this ship somewhere
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-30
Updated: 2012-07-30
Packaged: 2017-11-10 23:48:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/472079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaDolceMia/pseuds/LaDolceMia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Someone has a touch of trichophilia - but who's the doctor and who's the patient?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seven Locks

**Author's Note:**

> While recently staring at Benedict's hair in a completely normal and not at all prurient way, it occurred to me that I hadn't run across any tressy Johnlock fic. "How is this fandom not simply _flooded_ with hairporn?", I asked myself. The devil overheard me and whispered " _Write some_."
> 
> This pair of fics began as unmitigated cracksilliness, but erm... got rather less cracky as things progressed; the sexytimes got the better of me, as the sexytimes are wont to do.
> 
> Button-clickers, never doubt that kudos are always warmly appreciated. They let me know if I'm pleasing readers which is something I very much like to do. 
> 
> PWP Ahoy!

_Delilah said to Samson, Tell me, I pray thee, wherein thy great strength lieth, and wherewith thou might be bound to afflict thee... And he said unto her, If thou weavest the seven locks of my head, I will become feeble and will be like any other man._

~

  


Possessed of merely an _ordinary_ brain, he's a bit slow to catch on, put two and two together – _as usual, John, you_ see _but do not_ observe _._

Didn't, in fact, even really _see_ it the first time it happened, much less observe it, too busy being quite overwhelmed by the large, clanging sentences in his head like _Ohdeargodthisisreallyhappening_ as he'd leapt - daft! - filling the suddenly charged silence at the end of a shared laugh with the sound of muffled surprise as he abruptly launched his mouth against Sherlock's. Too busy being run over by the train that was the sensation of his hand sliding into the unbuttoned slit of the purple dress shirt as he shoved the world's only consulting detective up against the foyer wall, hoping the dubious plaster would hold.

Obviously lacking even the most rudimentary observation skills, he'd missed, on that chaotic ( _glorious_!) night, the telling conjunction of his sliding his hands into the thicket of silky black hair that first time and Sherlock arching like a lightning bolt, sag of one leg so total that John had to grip him to keep him standing.

The memory warms him all over– _all_ over– and he shifts, tossing his sofa-mate a friendly "Budge up" as he tugs the coverlet aside and makes to stretch a bit. "Budging up" in the linguistic region of Sherlock's brain apparently means "roll one's eyes petulantly and scoot precisely one half centimeter," as that's what he gets.

It's round about a fortnight into this new - and god, bit good - development in their–  whatever this is–  that the good doctor is, of a lazy Saturday evening telly-and-takeaway night in, finally pondering the concurrence of incidental touches to Sherlock's hair and the peculiar, sometimes rather extreme, responses.

And sometimes most inopportune. That awkward scene at the Brynmoore Estates; windy day, forest crime scene. John innocently flicking away a bit of leaf that'd caught on a billowing brunette strand. Sherlock's eyes closing and a small but all too audible moan slipping out. Lestrade and everyone else within earshot frozen like deer in headlights and staring wide-eyed, Sherlock barging away with a flare of coat and a red flag unfurling from his neck all the way to his forehead. John standing dumbfounded, gaping for a long moment before bustling after, not daring to look back.

Correlation, of course, doesn't _necessarily_ mean causality. He'll need to test his diagnosis, as he would with a patient. Erm– not exactly as he would with a patient, because what he's testing is the premise that doing things to Sherlock's _hair_ drives the man barking mad with sexual pleasure. Which if true is–  well a bit odd, is what. But then, this is Sherlock; normal's been rewritten from day one.

In his peripheral vision, he sizes up his patient: Breath slow and even, ornamented with a small nasal huff now and then when the rubbish programme offends his massive intellect with a particularly egregious inanity. Pulse looking like it's thumping the carotid at a healthy 64 bpm or so. Just above, a blackbrown lock curves perfectly around his ear. And he's not. Staring at it. Fingers sort of. Tingling to touch it.

It's nothing he's planned, really; he slides his arm up there across the sofaback simply because there's no room for it anywhere else, couch empire wholly colonised by lanky sprawl of denimed legs. And he certainly couldn't have predicted that after several more minutes of subdued derision-snorting, Sherlock would tilt his head back resignedly. Sigh loudly on an exhale to non-verbally announce his boredom of rubbish telly, life in general, humanity, and then. Let his head rest firmly against John's arm.

War is all about the unexpected, the unplanned; being able to make advantageous extemporaneous maneuvers in whatever circumstances arise. Captain John H. Watson knows an opening when he sees one. Casual lift of fingers as though he’s just stretching them, light drop onto tense shoulder. The minute movement shifts Sherlock's head more comfortably into the nook of John's elbow, and gives him just the bit of space he needs to work.

Rubs idly, gently along his collar. Pay no mind, detective, nothing going on here. Relax. Don't leap up in a huff and enumerate for me the 1,014 ways in which character so-and-so _could not possibly_ have done X or Y. Stay. That's it. Stay right there. Shifts his thigh to cover the movement of his hand, make it seem incidental. A mere accident that his knuckles are now grazing the soft border of hair at snow white neck.

Aha! I see but don't observe, eh? Your _breath_. Hitched. Just a little. But how do I get you into my hands?

"My– um. Here, would you mind, please?" Gestures like his bad shoulder's hurting. The instant softening of the pouting face and immediate compliance twinge John with a pinch of guilt– but a little white lie for a good purpose s'alright, yeah?  

Sherlock's quietly given him more space than a man twice his size could use, folding his appreciable length in on itself like some improbable magic trick, and now he's got nowhere to put his head but back against John's chest. And what a trial that is:  " _Mpf_. Your jumper is _itchy_." Moves his head peevishly against the fabric in emphasis.

"Is it? Here, let me–" and just like that he's reaching, sliding his fingers all at once into the delicious mop of hair, dragging his fingertips in a soothing rub-scratch sort of thing he's just invented (proud!) that is, apparently, the best thing that anyone, anywhere, has devised since the dawn of time. Or at least, Sherlock seems to think so, if the sound out of his throat is any evidence.

It's a long, _glorious_ moment before he collects himself, suddenly remembers that he's disgruntled and imperious and a tormented genius who most certainly does _not_ have some sort of perverted hair fetish, and the moan is smothered away in a hammy stage cough.

Going to be recalcitrant, are we?  A more advanced diagnostic, then. Observe the patient for symptom emergence whilst he performs everyday tasks. Tosses the irresistible bait out into the air: "I don’t really see what’s so implausible about the plot here. I mean, that first crime scene at the start—"

Mouth not even fully closed on the interrupted word and Sherlock’s off and running. The impassioned indictment animates his head, making harder work of John’s caressing, but he’s a doctor; good with his hands. Little light strokes to start, over the crown, barely touching. Even so, some effect–  he’s certain he hears it in small modulations of the voice, feels it in the warm body against him, little tremors shivering down arms, legs.

Bit more pressure then, right. And lets his fingers sink all the way into the hair now, gliding slowly through the thickness. So absorbed in the sensation himself that he fails for a moment to notice that each word out of the voluble mouth is emerging softer than the last. More space between them too, whole spans of seconds where deep, languid breathing breaks up the syntax.

Slow drag of knuckles across temple, slip of palm caressingly into the chestnut mass. Mmm. Thick but yielding, silky against the skin of his hand. Spares a second to glance down, and is glad he did, as it gets him a rare view: When, ever in life, has Sherlock Holmes been _pliable_? More's the pity, as it's a lovely sight to behold - Angular face softened into a glow, hazy smile drifting on his mouth, body like a pool of mercury. Almost–  dear lord, he looks almost _docile_. Like a big long housecat.

The thought makes him smile, and he transmits the emotion into his hands. Longer stroking now, fingertips riding through the soft ocean all the way from forehead to nape, a hypnotizing rhythm broken occasionally by a linger here and there, Sherlock simply _melting_ , head sliding incrementally lower until it's in John's lap.

The eyelash flutter alone would have been enough evidence to confirm his diagnosis but today's Dr. Watson's lucky day apparently; he also gets another moan, this time Sherlock so lost in the pleasure he doesn't snap out of it, only lolls his head dazedly in John's hands and squirms his hips with unabashed desperation.

"Like that, do you?" he whispers, desire creaking into his voice.

"What–" the puddle mumbles, tell-tale arousal grogginess belying his words, "–are you on about?"

"You like this. My touching your hair. You _really_ like it," he teases, emphasizing his claim with a quick skim of his hand down heaving ribcage toward the obvious evidence. Which - _thank you_ , sartorial gods - the ridiculously close-fitting jeans do very little to hide. 

"It's nothing. Sexual. I. It's. It's merely...  the endorphins," he finally manages, fishing the last words out of the blurry pond of pleasure his mind's turning into. "Perfectly. Normal physiological re– _Oh_."

" ‘Physiological reoh’? Must’ve missed that one in med school." Doesn’t give him time to prickle at the gentle taunt, stroking harder where he's just thrust his hand back in.

Fits the thick tip of his index finger perfectly inside the coil of a curl, turns, gently. Softslide, like a sleek tongue against his skin, and for a moment it's unclear who's enjoying it more. Sherlock, always having to _win_ at everything, manages to on that point as well; moans plaintively, where John's only _hmmed_ smally. A grin he can't help, and a glance down: God, that pink mouth agape. Eyes closed, hills of cheekbone splotching already.

"So it’s just a perfectly normal, completely non-sexual reaction, is it? Then I suppose you won’t mind at all if I- stop?"

And stop he does, the tosswank, without even waiting for an answer, Sherlock wrenched out of his bliss like a bone leaving a joint socket.

John can see the battle, upside down from his vantage point. Forehead furrowed, parentheses of creases around frowning mouth. Pride pitted against carnal desire. The latter being the odds-on favorite, in his experience.

The groan that signals that victory is equal parts begrudging and lusty, but that's just fine with him, because it still means he can get his hands back into Sherlock's hair and then all over him, as quickly as that can be managed.

The thought makes his hips shove upwards on their own, insistent, and it's the worst sort of luck, the best sort of luck, that he's precisely at that moment slipped his fingers back into the deliciously disheveled mane, which causes Sherlock to simultaneously shove _down_. Knows with certainty that Sherlock can feel the trapped and aching flesh pressing against his spine, but he’ll be fine as long as–

Sherlock doesn’t _rub_. Which he. Is. It's. Distracting. Distracting, and his hands unwittingly slow their ministrations, prompting a haze-clearing whinge from the writhing, rubbing, pliable body against him.

Around. That's what he needs. Dazed tangle of limbs, and a distressing moment in which Sherlock fails to deduce what’s wanted, trying to scoot further down when what John is _clearly_ signaling by his chaotic groping and completely garbled non-word noises is that he wants him further _up_ and turned _around_. Ar–

ound. Yes. Dear god, yes. Smiling shakily, and it looks so good on him. The shouty red streaking pale face and neck even better. Doesn’t mean to _seize_ \- or perhaps he does - but that’s the only verb for it; seizes him, crushes his mouth fiercely, shoves his hands back into the dark hairline.

A wrenched moan as John slides his fingers greedily through the curls, tugs, just a fraction. It makes the lean body arch, rut; inelegant, desperate. John doesn't seem to mind the lack of grace or the sharp jab of pointy hipbone, moaning right back into his mouth, shoving right back against his writhe. He's losing his grip on everything, literally and figuratively, and he can’t resist - _why would he resist?_ \- when Sherlock extricates himself, moves urgently to John’s belt and.

Oh he’s going to do _that_. Well he'll just go ahead and die then. Right here, right now. Think of the c.o.d. certificate– scandalous! Half laughs the giddy laughter of the mad, which earns him a quizzical but not displeased glance from below, and thank god for the multi-tasking skills of geniuses:  He can gaze affectionately up at John whilst still undoing his flies with admirable efficiency.

Cool air for a split second before. Oh. Warmwet. _Oh_. Tongue like a thief, stealing his sanity. He can have it, let him take it. John Watson’s mind in a takeaway carton, don’t forget the chopsticks.  How he’s so quickly gotten so _good_ at this John’s no idea at all. Probably something about observing, data collecting, deducing. Doesn’t really care how at this moment, because now Sherlock’s sliding him effortlessly into his throat, head tilt and swallow and _ohjesus_ he's all in. Moist nostril huffs right against his skin, nudge of adam’s apple against his cock the most obscene, the most wonderful tickle ever. 

"Sh–   lock–"  

Less certain that he’s going to die, but _quite_ certain he’s going to come, and soon. Swirl of desire sweeps through him like a hard wave, wants– _needs_ his hands buried in the thick black hair.

Half-blind with sweat he reaches, finds. Rubs and strokes, slowing when that spot behind Sherlock’s ear where the hair curves all in a line captivates him. God, it's so _soft_ , so...  So lost in his reverie of stroking that he almost doesn’t startle when he hears a muffled plaint and suddenly feels breeze on wet skin.

"I can't-   function-  when you    do that,” frustrated gasps, narrow tonguetip sweeping up a smudge of saliva from the corner of his mouth.

Getting a clear look at him, John realizes he means it. “You really _can't_ , can you?”

Sherlock doesn't answer, but it's all there on his face. Admission of an Achilles heel; honest, no attempt at any sort of ego-preserving mask. Rare, such a moment, and he takes sympathy on him, obligingly drops his hands to the sofa, curls his fingers into cushion flesh. Hiss of sigh as Sherlock puts his mouth back on him.    

It's so– that thing he does with his tongue–  Behind his closed eyes, all he thinks, all he feels, is _SherlockSherlockSherlock_ ; wants to consume him, wants to spend hours just—

No other word for it, really; he _wails_ , pulling backwards off with a wet sound and a half-belligerent, half-begging croak. Didn't even realize his hands were doing it. Immediately releases his rapt hold, groans sympathetically when he sees the wet spot blooming on taut denim. Under the rucked John-molested hair, his ruddy face is an unbearable agony of want.

"Sorry, sorry, didn't mean to, honestly."   

Just as well that he's inadvertently interrupted him again, because the sight of the impossibly curved pink lips swollen and slick makes him greedy, makes him want to _take_ Sherlock, wants them pressed together and churning into one fused body of flesh and pleasure and close, so close, Sherlock's _too far away_ down there so he grabs.

No misunderstanding this time; Sherlock knows exactly where John wants him, and oh how he wants to be there so he is, hotly, heavily, draped on top of his blogger, his doctor, his– _oh_. John’s hands are so- aggressive, so- perfect. Shoving up under his shirt, down under his jeans, all over his back, neck, hips, seemingly everywhere all at once–  he does only have _two_ , yes?

He loves all of the hands, he loves– ( _Oh he_ \- Oh. _File for later. Very important data_.) Tries to get his own hand where he wants it, but the geometry stymies him. Proper genius his ordinary John, he knows just how to do it, gets his hand deftly between them, seemingly impossible peel of zip and Sherlock's suddenly free, purple and dripping, face a chaotic chimera of relief and agony at the touch. Can only shudder and cling as John palms down the shaft firmly, stroking two probing fingertips across already tightening bollocks when he lands.

Squeezes his eyes shut when the other hand presses determinedly into the dip of his spine, pushing him to the right just a–   makes a rather terrifying choked-hiccupping sound as John captures them where they're crushed a little in the thrusting nest of pelvises and grips the two of them together, wet smear and the minor veer of Sherlock's slightly left-curving shaft moving adeptly through his fingers. It's certain. A certain grip; competent, sure. Trust it to save your life, with a gun or a scalpel or a slick fist around your pressed-together cocks.   

Slippery foreheads leaning hard together, hot breath making a suffocating, wonderful cocoon. Tracing the tension of the lithe back, he draws his hand up knobby spine, slows gently at cervical vertebrae, brushing at the hem of hair. Spreads his fingers apart and slides in, slowly as he can. It sounds like pain, the noise out of Sherlock's mouth an inch from his own. It isn't.

Strokes his hands in synchrony now, and just a little faster. Watches him start to break apart. Or rather, too close to see much more than a blur of shining eyes and gasping mouth, _feels_ him going to pieces, flat belly trembling, thighs shaking, staggered breath huffing against his face.

Winds his fingers more tightly into the chestnut tumult, yanks, hard, as he slides both of them roughly through his encircling hand. There he is, broken. Agonized chant of _JohnJohnJohn_ disintegrating into animal noises. Doesn't know whether he more wants to keep hearing the primal aria, or taste Sherlock's mouth; bites at his lip ( _too hard too hard I know sorry can’t help it_ ) in a sloppy compromise as he speeds the fist between them.

Feels Sherlock's whole body begin to tense, doesn't need the agonized arpeggio of Yeses to know that he's there, right in that tight, freefalling moment when orgasm's inevitable and seconds away, blooming like a supernova, or one of those time lapse photography reels of flowers, and—  arriving, hot and wet over his fingers and he should get a bloody medal for having the presence of mind to keep them from rolling disastrously onto the floor as four long limbs clutch and flail. Suddenly lax, the body shuddering over him settles into aftershocks, jagged gasps against his clavicle, lips rubbing at the bone. 

Makes as to slip Sherlock out of the grasp, get his raw, newly spilled cock away from the vigorous friction he's still delivering to himself. Hot streak of awe in his gut when Sherlock resists, wrapping his slender fingers sluggishly over John's, silently encouraging him to continue stroking against his softening, no doubt painful now, flesh.  

Clasps him to his chest, too hard ( _sorry can’t help it_ ), swallows the welling in his throat and spills on a fourth frantic pull, a tumbling down stairs careen that shuts his eyes and opens his throat.

 

~

Still immobilised, Sherlock lays heavily on him, splayed like a wrecked craft on a beach. With a small bend that winces the bad shoulder in earnest he kisses the soaked headtop. " _Ngh_." He's custard at present, the cleverest man in the world. Rubbery limbs and thoroughly fuzzed mind and- dear lord. He's _nuzzling_ at John.

Runs his hand soothingly across the wet plane of Sherlock's back as he catches his breath, lifting the fabric away from the hot skin; it's a sticky, clammy, aching-where-couch frame-has-bruised, spectacularly-ruined-clothes, thoroughly uncomfortable mess, this heaving tangle. It's paradise.

Brain loping 'round drunkenly with its martini glass of dopamine and oxytocin, he starts a sentence, laughs at himself when he can't quite get it out. Another deep breath, another slow pet down the thin shoulderblades, and he's got his tongue and his cortex working in tandem again:

"Who'd have suspected it–  the great Sherlock Holmes's weakness is his _hair_. Can be reduced to a big pile of goo by it, turned into a mere mortal,"  he muses, pausing to let the smile blossom. Murmurs into the silky strands, voice warm with fond amusement. "My very own Samson."

Quiet, said mortal turns his head, presses his cheek against the sturdy chest, savoring the vibration of the small chuckle. Let him think that. Holds the ember of truth silently in his mouth, in the heart he ostensibly doesn't have.

  
_It's not the hair, John; it's_ you _that undoes me, renders me helpless._  


  
_It's you who makes me human._   


  



End file.
